


Wake Unto Me

by Anony_Moouse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Magic, Quasi-Fairy Tale, Temporary Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anony_Moouse/pseuds/Anony_Moouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a house on the very edge of the woods. The stone walls are framed with ivy, each crag and crevice edged with vines. But for the well-worn path leading to the door, the weeds twist and run through the yard; its mistress has no time for tending to the wild plants.<br/>She rocks back and forth in her chair and in the house behind her, her Dreamers sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Harry is happy, living with his three friends in their house on the edge of town. They don't have much, but they have each other. That is all they need. Except there is something missing, if they could only remember what it was.</p><p> </p><p>A loose interpretation of the Tale of Sleeping Beauty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Unto Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had a little idea for a story, thought I might squeeze a thousand words out of it. Then this happened; I am really not sure how. Oopsie?
> 
> THIS IS NOT BETA READ! I know what I want it to say, but there is no guarantee it actually makes sense. Please let me know if it is entirely incomprehensible – I will try to clarify it!
> 
> This is almost my first attempt at Lirry! Yay! My first smut scene! Yay! Any thoughts on characterization/ presentation would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> Comments and kudos are golden!
> 
> Title from Beautiful Dreamer by Stephen Foster, song also featured in the story.
> 
> Thanks for the read!

Wake Unto Me

 

 

There is a house on the very edge of the woods. The stone walls are framed with ivy, each crag and crevice edged with vines. But for the well-worn path leading to the door, the weeds twist and run through the yard; its mistress has no time for tending to the wild plants.

She sits on the porch, rocking back and forth in her chair. She is a young woman, her face unlined with the weight of age. She is an old woman, her eyes heavy with the weight of all she has seen.

She never leaves, but she is not lonely; people come to her.

She does not speak, but closes her eyes and remembers that which all others have forgotten.

The Mistress rocks back and forth and in the house behind her, her Dreamers sleep.

 

 

_Their house was once Niall’s house, built by him and his Father stone by stone and wall by wall as the winter melts away. It is a second to last gift, the last gift being a kiss on the forehead and the promise of freedom. The night his father leaves, Niall sits in his cozy house and plays his fiddle for the silent walls. The music echoes back to him and tells him his house is not yet a home._

_He finds Harry first, renting a room at the pub not because he needs the drink, but because he fears being alone._

_Zayn and Louis came together, childhood friends trying to start something new. They are a strange pair, the loud one and the one who never speaks. But in the safety of Niall’s house, Louis quiets as Harry pets his hair and Zayn talks softly of family._

_It is almost perfect._

_Harry finds Liam sleeping by the river, his face stained by miles of dust, his muddied boots telling the tale of a wanderer. He has wide shoulders and strong arms. Harry is wary until Liam awakes and gives him a tentative, sweet smile. Harry brings Liam home, and their jagged edged puzzle is somehow complete._

_They add rooms to Niall’s house, with crooked walls and uneven floors. They build chairs for the table, each one a different height. They argue over which boy belongs to which chair, and Louis fights viciously for the tallest one. He sits on it victoriously, his toes barely skimming the ground._

_Niall never knew how not to share, so his house becomes theirs.  At night when Niall brings out his fiddle, the boys sing his songs back to him and Niall knows that it is finally home._

 

Harry woke slowly, allowing himself the selfish luxury of lying in bed, even as the bright summer sun of morning prickled at his closed eyes. The last whispers of a dream tugged at his mind, but quickly faded as wakefulness took hold.

He felt the tingling in his bones, the call of the new day. With a sigh, he pushed back the covers, rolled his back and stretched his arms, trying to work out the soft ache of sleep. He rubbed his eyes and gave himself three breaths: slow and deep, in and out.

Another day.

Louis was at the table when Harry stumbled into the main room, his feet kicking aimlessly and his head pillowed on folded arms. Harry pressed an absent minded kiss to the top of Louis’ head as he passed.

The house was quiet.

Harry filled the dented copper kettle with cold water, and placed it on the warmed stove. He turned to the window, looked out at the flitting birds and the spreading green of an early summer. He pressed his hand to the center of his chest, rubbing absently at the vague ache there.

Behind him, he heard the creaking of doors and the scrap of chairs: the grumbling of reluctant mornings.

The kettle whistled, glaringly cheery in the quiet kitchen. Harry turned, offering a small smile to Niall, sitting cross legged in his chair, eyes still glazed in sleep but grin firmly in place. Zayn was tucked at Louis’ side, their heads ducked together in protest of consciousness.

Harry grabbed the teacups from the cupboard, kicking absently at the extra chair pushed to the wall, covered with scraps of leather and Zayn’s crumpled papers.

He set the four cups on the table and poured tea for his boys. The trickling sound of water in porcelain was enough to rouse Louis. He lifted his head, eyes blinking blearily and fingers reaching instinctually for his tea. He made grunting sounds in the back of his throat that were almost a thank you. Niall took his cup with an absent salute. Zayn didn’t move.

Harry leaned back in his chair and breathed in the warm steam. He shuddered on the exhale, an unseasonable chill running down his spine. He sipped his tea and stared at the untouched sugar bowl sitting in the middle of the table.

 

 

I need your help. My… my family needs your help.

Of course. But I cannot give you a gift for nothing in return.

I will do anything.

Anything?

 

 

_Life isn’t easy. Niall works in the fields in the days, and spends the night singing rousing songs in the pub. Louis’ quick hands turn swaths of leather into holsters and sheathes, sturdy enough that people come from miles away to seek his craft. Liam’s strong shoulders carry beams and slats, crafting houses and barns from the forest itself. Zayn sees the world in colors others can’t imagine; he paints houses and walls and papers and anything that stands still. Harry bakes; pies for the inn, bread for the pub, and cookies for the children who wander by._

_And through each of their gifts, the house becomes their own._

_Zayn sits against the far wall, lip caught in his teeth and paintbrush in hand as he turns the entire expanse into a mural. Its bright shapes and curves would catch the eye of any who saw, but only those who lived in the house saw the story tucked into each stroke._

_Liam builds them all beds from sturdy oak, and dressers solid enough to outlive them all._

_From scraps and left over bits of leather, Louis forms satchel bags for his boys. Each is unique, but made with utmost care._

_Harry shoos them away from the kitchen, his own little corner of the house. He does what he can with the little they have, and when they gather around the table for dinner, he blushes under their praise._

_And, as the exhaustion of long days sets in, Niall brings out his fiddle and plays. Zayn will draw, and Louis will drink tea. Liam and Harry will curl together on the floor as they all sing along._

_It is their home._

 

           

_They are playing in the fields they are supposed to be plowing, giddy in the last of the warm days. Zayn lies on the ground, head pillowed on his hands. He tilts his face to the sun and dreams. Harry is sprawled next to him, long fingers weaving daisies chains into crowns. Liam has held out the longest, face glistening with sweat as he swings his sickle through the long grass. But Louis is not one to play alone. He and Niall pelt Liam with sod and clumps of grass, ducking into the rippling wheat whenever Liam turns to glare. But from his place on the ground, Harry can see the twinkle in Liam’s eyes, the spark they all fought to bring out. Harry laughs as Louis pops up, mud in hand, only to be met with a full body tackle, Liam’s work forgotten. Niall rushes to defend his friend, though which one, no one is sure. It turns into a game of chase, laughter wafting in the light breeze as their bodies cut paths in the thick grass, an impenetrable maze that no outsider can follow._

_But the densely packed wheat hid more than just their tracks._

_Niall cries out as he falls, the sharp sound cutting through the peaceful haze. Niall sits, breathless. His foot is caught in the ditch, his hands wrapped around his pulsing knee._

_He is surrounded by waist high grass, his bleached hair the same color as the stalks. He should have been lost in the field but within moments his boys are around him. Gentle hands free his foot, and strong arms lift him away._

_Sickles and daisy chains are left, forgotten._

_Louis spends precious money on a piece of thick leather, stays awake for two days as he slowly shapes it into a brace. Zayn sits at the table, tongue between his teeth, as he carefully tools the brace until it is covered with whirls and twists, notes to a song that only they know. Harry scours the forest for the perfect branch, and Liam whittles and sands it down into a cane, soft and smooth as butter. Niall laughs in delight at their offerings, promising to grow fat and lazy. His smile is bright but tense in the corners, his shoulder’s loose while his back is taut. He hurries them out the door every morning, a bright smile on his face, but his eyes have a new melancholy._

_(Liam watches Niall’s light grow dim, watches Niall force enthusiasm to hide his sorrow. Liam looks at his tools and his shoulders bow knowing there is nothing he can build to bring the world to Niall. But he will never stop trying.)_

 

Harry walked carefully down the worn path to the barn, cautiously balancing the jugs of tea and the loaves of oven-warmed bread in his hands. A dust-covered lunch would serve no one.

He pushed open the worn door, the creaky hinges heralding his arrival. Louis looked up from his work, focusing quickly on the food in Harry’s hands. The leather saddle pieces fell from his hands as his eyes brightened. He held his hands out with the eagerness of a child. Harry laughed as he hurried to share his bounty. Louis impatiently divested him of the bread and tea.

Harry left Louis to his lunch and wandered absently through the barn, from the well-worn area of Louis’ workbench to the cold, cobwebbed corners in the back. There were no lanterns there, but a ray of light from the uppermost window illuminated another dust-covered bench. A thick carpet of sawdust covered the ground, muffling Harry’s footsteps as he approached the bench. Absently, Harry leaned over and picked up a chisel, its handle weathered by use but the blade rusted over by lack of care. A half finished chair sat in the corner, sturdy but un-sanded.  Harry carefully placed the chisel back on the bench and eased away, a cold feeling settling in his stomach.

None of his boys knew how to make chairs.

A muffled cry was all the warning he got before a flailing pile of limbs fell from the sky, landing on his back. Harry hit the ground, his cry drowned out by a cackling laugh.

“You didn’t see that one coming, eh Harry?” Niall giggled, leaning forward from his perch on Harry’s back to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Harry shoved him away with a halfhearted grumble. He twisted around, unseating Niall and sending him shrieking to the ground next to Harry. They lay, side by side, staring up at the barn roof.

“What the hell are you doing, Niall?” Harry asked.

“Clearing out the loft! Great load of crap we have up there!” Niall said, with more excitement than a dirty job should merit. Niall gestured enthusiastically to the thin, spindly ladder leading to the small second floor loft. Something prickled the back of Harry’s mind, some reason Niall should be far away from such rickety things. Something he couldn’t quiet remember.

“Its nice just to be outside.” Niall sighed, content, before he scrambled nimbly to his feet. His pants were old and worn, the cloth covering his knees completely gone. Niall reached down and brushed dust, hay and dirt from his pink-skinned knees. Harry stared as Niall bent and twisted with ease. The cold feeling returned to his stomach.

“Ah, lads! Stop have fun! You will tempt me away from my work!” Louis’ voice echoed loudly through the barn. Harry shook his head and got to his feet. There was no time to get lost in his head.

Harry dusted himself off, batting Niall away as he tried to pick pieces of hay out of Harry’s curls. Together, they meandered to the front of the barn. As they walked, something caught Harry’s eye.

In the farthest, darkest corner of the barn, a leather brace and a worn cane lay propped on a stool, covered in the thick film of dust.

Harry stared at the objects with a curiously blank mind as Niall hurried him out into the warm sunlight.

 

 

This is the only thing I can do. They will be fine without me.

If you are sure.

 

 

_It’s a wet fall, air heavy with the first whispers of cold. The moisture settles in into everything, from blankets and coats, to throats and lungs. They all catch it; the moist cough, running nose and bone deep ache of illness._

_But Zayn’s cough is different. It comes from deep in his lungs, a hacking sound that leaves him doubled over and breathless in its wake. While everyone else’s cough slows and fades, his worsens until even the shallowest breath brings on the fits of coughing. One by one, all the pillows in the house make their way to Zayn’s bed, as he can’t sleep lying down._

_He turns his face away from food, not having the energy to swallow. Even Harry’s own soup is met with a trembling smile and shaking head. Zayn hides his thinning torso under layers of sweaters; Liam’s thickest jacket hangs almost comically from his bony shoulders._

_Liam goes into town and brings home syrups and elixirs, each one bearing the empty promises of the chemist. Harry watches him go, and wonders which part of Liam’s intricately organized carpentry set will be missing this time, bartered away for a bottle of hope._

_They gather around Zayn as he dutifully swallows each one down, trying to hide his grimace at the taste. Every time, they pray for a miracle. Every night, they lay awake, listening to Zayn struggle to breath._

_They slowly migrate to Zayn’s bed, holding his shivering body, supporting him when the coughing fits reduce him to tears._

_Zayn still shakes from the cold._

_(Liam lies in bed and listens to Zayn wheezing and choking breaths. He sees Zayn push away his careworn journals and pencils, having no energy to do even the things he loves. Liam looks at his own shoulders, and his chest hurts because he knows that he is not strong enough to take Zayn’s burden away. Liam will find a way to make this better; he just doesn’t know how)_

 

Harry was sitting at the table, staring absently at the closed door leading to the spare room. He rested his hand on his chin, and bit his lip. He couldn’t remember what was even in it; couldn’t remember having ever even been in the room. That was strange, but his head was beginning to hurt as he fought to recall the room. He looked up at the sound of running footsteps, glad for the distraction. He still jumped in his seat up when the front door flew open, banging against the far wall as Zayn rushed in on a gust of summer wind. Zayn was panting, a single hand pressed against his chest as though it might help his heaving lungs. Harry sat up straight, his own breath catching in his throat. Zayn couldn’t breathe.

But Zayn looked up at him with a smile on his face, his cheeks pink and sun kissed. He quirked his lips at Harry; Harry could barely manage a smile in return.

“You are ok?” Harry could see it was true, but somehow couldn’t force himself to believe it.

“Of course I am.” Zayn said mildly, running his fingers through his dark hair, “Just finished painting the Hemming’s home – they let me use all the colors I wanted!” Harry smiled, helpless in the face of Zayn’s enthusiasm. He shook his head, unsure why he had been worried in the first place. Zayn leaned back and stretched his arms as far as he could, fingers wiggling. He drew a deep, steady breath. Harry watched his chest expand smoothly and had to turn away as his eyes began to burn. He didn’t want Zayn to ask him what was wrong – he couldn’t explain it to himself.

Behind him, he heard Zayn moseying around the house, toeing off his shoes and hanging his satchel on one of the five pegs. There was a moment of silence. Harry turned to see Zayn standing at the far wall; his wall. The wall three quarters covered by Zayn’s own paints and brushes.          

“Are you ever going to finish it?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. I think.” Zayn reached out, fingers slowly tracing over the whorls of color, the bright splashes and dark corners. “It just doesn’t feel…” Zayn’s voice trails off. He pressed his hand flush against the wall as though trying to feel the inspiration he had lost.

Harry didn’t make Zayn finish his thought. He knew exactly what he meant.

 

You know the cost, little one?

Yes.

Are they worth it?

Always.

 

 

_Niall sits in his room, staring out his window at the world his knee is keeping him from. Zayn lies in his bed, eyes glazed with sleeplessness and pain. Harry flits between the rooms with soup no one will eat and tea no one will drink. There is no more music in the evenings; no one has the heart to sing._

_Liam and Louis begin standing in corners talking in fierce whispers, sharp enough that Harry hear the hiss of their voices, though he can’t make out the words._

_He isn’t sure he wants to._

_It’s an early evening, but sun has almost disappeared from the sky. A sea of glistening snow surrounds the house. Though the crackling fire warms the rooms, Harry shivers at the cold glare of the fading day. The snow should be beautiful, but all Harry can think of is the first day of spring. Winter can’t last much longer, can it?_

_The sharp rise of Liam’s voice startles Harry from the window._

_“Damnit Louis, there has to be something else.”_

_Harry turns towards the sound, already knowing what he will see. Liam is standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed against his chest. Louis is standing in front of him, vibrating with an anger that makes him seem so much larger than he is. With tired feet, Harry walks over to them._

_“Do you have to fight?” Harry cuts into their sharp whispers, “With all of this, must you fight too?”_

_Louis turns on him, eyes flashing._

_“Harry, open your eyes.” He spits with a venom Harry has never seen aimed at him; Harry forces himself not to take a step back, “Niall can’t work with his knee. Zayn can barely breath. We all know Liam is selling his tools for medicines that aren’t helping anything.” Louis turns from Harry, but Harry’s breathless relief sours when Louis looks at Liam, voice tight with a caustic sarcasm, “And what are you going to do when someone knocks on the door, and asks you to build them a table? Offer them the empty bottles your tools bought?” Liam stands tall in the face of Louis’ derision, hands twisted in shaking fists at his sides._

_“I can’t just do nothing, Louis!” The cruel turn of Louis’ lips wavers, and Harry can see the fear he is trying to hide._

_“I know that.” Louis says, his voice soft with a strange hopelessness. Harry swallows thickly and wishes- god, he wishes- for Louis’ anger instead. “I do. But nothing is making a difference.” Louis tips his head up, and stares at the ceiling. “Maybe if we sell the house…”_

_“No!” Harry says, the cry pulled unbidden from his throat, leaving it feeling raw, “You can’t say that!” Louis looks at him with tired eyes. Sometimes Harry forgets that Louis is the oldest, his playful smirk hides the responsibility he always shoulders. But in this moment, Louis looks older than he has ever been._

_“How else are we supposed to make it through this damn winter Harry?” He says, his voice dragging with the burden of the harsh words. “Do you have any ideas? How can you bake if we can’t afford to buy you flour?”_

_“But.” Harry throws his arms out, gesturing at the uneven floors, mismatched chairs and brightly colored walls. “It’s our home.” He doesn’t care that his voice breaks on the last word. Louis makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and wraps his arms tight around Harry’s shoulders. Harry clings back, eyes screwed shut._

_“I know, Curly.” Louis whispers, but he doesn’t take back his words. Harry forces his eyes open, looking over Louis’ shoulder. Liam watches them, and Harry sees his own misery echoed in Liam’s eyes.  He doesn’t know what they are going to do. He stays in the comfort of Louis’ arms as Liam straightens his back, turns toward the door, and without a backward glance, walks out into the snow._

_(Liam stands in the barn and lets himself break. He thinks about Niall’s bleak eyes and Zayn’s blue-tinged lips. He thinks about the house they have built together, and the boys who made the house a home. He thinks off all the things he can’t do, of going back into the house and looking at the boys he loves more than life, knowing he has failed them. He thinks until he accepts the thing he has always known; there is nothing he won’t do for his boys.)_

The day was over, all tasks completed, all chores tucked away. Zayn was curled up at the table, papers spread around him and pencil in hand, but he was not drawing. He eyes were glazed and unfocused as he stared at his mural.

Louis sat across from him, puffing quietly on his pipe. Harry was sprawled before the fire, flipping absently through his book. Niall had dragged his chair next to Harry, and was staring into the twisting flames.

No one spoke.

Niall heaved a sigh, shaking Harry away from his book.

“How about some music, chaps?” He said, clapping his hands together. Harry nodded, forcing a smile to his face. Niall grabbed his fiddle, fingers caressing the neck like a long lost friend. He tucked it beneath his chin, and closed his eyes as he began to pluck at the strings. Zayn smiled and placed his pencil on the table; Louis lowered his pipe. The notes became a song, a sweet and wistful tune.

Niall sang first, “Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,” Harry closed his eyes and opened his mouth, his voice twisting around Niall’s with practiced ease, even as Zayn and Louis joined in, blending and harmonizing.

“E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea, then will all clouds of sorrow depart…” The words were right, the fiddle tuned and true, but the sound was somehow hollow. The voices of his boys were around him, filling the air but Harry knew with painful instinct something was wrong. Harry’s voice cracked and faded away, his throat thick with something he couldn’t explain. Harry shut his mouth with a snap, hiding his suddenly blurry eyes in his hands. Zayn’s voice lasted but a moment longer, quickly following Harry into silence. Niall’s playing cut off on a sour, discordant note. All Harry could hear was the heaving of his own chest.

“Why did you stop?” Louis’ voice echoed oddly in the sudden quiet of the room.

“Something is missing.” Harry said. He lifted his hands away from his face, but found all he could stare at was the dust covered sugar bowl sitting on the table.

“No it isn’t. It isn’t, you idiots. Keep singing.” Louis’ voice was brittle. Harry could feel the burn of Louis’ glare. He didn’t meet Louis’ eyes but found his gaze drawn helplessly to him as Louis started singing,

“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee,” Louis sang, his normally soft voice harsh and dissonant as he forced his voice louder, as though trying to rouse the other voices by force of will alone. Harry could see the wild glint in Louis’ eyes; his chest hurt. “Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day, Lull'd by the moonlight have…” Louis’ voice cracked, splintered and he covered his eyes with a shaking hand. Silently, Zayn rose from his seat. He rounded the table slowly, approached Louis with wary determination. He stretched out his hand and gently pressed the palm of his hand to Louis’ chest.

“…all pass'd away.” Louis finished, his voice now whisper-thin and shaky. He lowered his hands from his eyes, and covered Zayn fingers with his own. He looked at all of them, his eyes reddened and lost. Zayn slowly leaned down until his forehead was resting against Louis’. Harry scrambled over and leaned his head against Louis’ knee, eager to grab any semblance of comfort. Louis’ hand fell onto Harry’s head, fingers tangling in the curls. Harry leaned into the sting. The clangor of hurried footsteps heralded Niall’s arrival, and Harry felt the firm, sturdy lines of Niall’s legs at his back as Niall tried to wrap his arms around them all. Harry screwed his eyes shut and leaned into his boys, but even the hug felt somehow lacking. Harry’s eyes stung.

“What’s wrong with us?” Harry heard Louis whisper, muffled by the tight press of bodies.

“I don’t know.” Harry murmured back.

But something was wrong, and they all knew it.

 

 

Do you know what you are giving up, child? It will be as though you never were.

But they will be ok? All of them?

They will be fine.

How can I not do it?

 

She was sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth in her chair. She didn’t open her eyes as they walked slowly up her path, through the tangle of weeds and up the creaking stairs. There was a single door to the house; it was closed tightly, its hinges covered with rust. The porch was empty but for the woman and her rocking chair. They came to a halt before her, glancing quickly at each other, unsure of what to say.

“Four of you.” She said, her voice deep and resonating. Her eyes were still closed. “Interesting.” Louis swallowed and took a step forward, chin tilted up and hands fisted at his side.

“We lost something.” He said. She opened her eyes and Harry flinched back. Her eyes were not blue or green or brown, but somehow all the colors at once. They were captivating and terrifying.

“I am sorry.” She said, her rocking chair stilling. Harry stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, cracking his knuckles. His fingers were restless and fidgeting, but his voice was steady when he spoke.

“We need it back.” The woman nodded slowly, lifting her hands and steepling them against her chin.

“And why are you here?” She asked, gaze drifting to each of them. When her gaze landed on him, Harry’s mouth went dry and his hands clammy. It was like she was looking inside of him. He lifted his shoulders and curled his back, his mouth open helplessly as he cast around for the words to explain the emptiness they had all recognized.

“Because something- someone is gone, but he wasn’t always.” Harry said, simply and honestly as he could, “We need him back.” The woman nodded at Harry’s words, just the slightest duck of her head.

“I understand,” Harry wasn’t sure how she could – he didn’t understand it, “I do not take what is not given, and what is given has never been returned.” The Mistress smiled softly before continuing, “Go home, boys. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”She was telling the truth; Harry could see it in her eyes. But it was not the truth they needed. He took a step forward, shaking hands stretched towards the woman,

“But he is ours.” Harry said, his voice cracking, “We are not us without him. We need him back.” The Mistress stood and approached Harry. Her movements were too quick and fluid to be human. Harry flinched back, but forced himself to meet her gaze. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted a single finger and placed it on Harry’s brow. A fissure of heat sparking from her touch; Harry flinched but he couldn’t move back. He heard Louis grunt and a shuffle of steps, but he did not look away from the woman. With a jerk, she pulled her hand away. She placed her finger against her own temple, and shut her eyes with a quiet exhale. No one moved.

“Interesting.” She murmured. Harry could see her eyes darting back and forth behind her closed lids. “I only take what I am given.” She said. Harry couldn’t stop his sharp inhale when her eyes snapped open, focused on him with a painful intensity, “But maybe someone gave me something that was not his alone.” She looked down at the finger she had pressed to Harry’s forehead, a look of wonder on her face. “No one has ever come looking for one of my Dreamers.” She said languorously. A slow, wide smile broke across her face; she took a step back and turned her head slowly to gaze at all of them.

“If you can find him,” she said, “and you can wake him, you may have him back.” She gestured smoothly at the door to her home. Harry followed her finger, and bit his trembling upper lip when he noticed the door was open. He nodded tightly and turned to the door. He didn’t notice Louis walking up to him until he felt Louis’ finger twist around his own. He looked at Louis, and saw a fierce determination in Louis’ eyes. He felt the warm press of another hand; Zayn was by his side as well, and on his face Harry saw quiet courage. He twisted his head; Niall was behind him, shining with a hope so bright it was almost painful. Harry nodded tightly and turned to face the door once more. They were together.

They went into the house.

Harry shivered; the house was strangely cool compared to the warm summer sun. He blinked in the sudden darkness, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. There are no divides, the house just a single great room. Niall whimpered, edging closer to Harry. Harry felt his calves tighten and blinked his eyes rapidly, but the vision did not change. The room was full with rows and rows of thin cots, each occupied by a single body.

“They are all sleeping.” Zayn whispered, his voice shaking. Harry nodded tightly, not trusting his voice. They were sleeping; he could see their chest’s moving in eerier synchronicity. But not one sound escaped the Dreamer’s lips, not one finger twitched.

Harry licked his lips, and met Louis’ eyes. Louis nodded back at him, and they moved in as one. They spread out slowly; footsteps deliberately quiet, as sound seemed out of place in the house. Harry walked down his row of beds, studying the slack face of each Dreamer. He did not know what the one they were missing looked like, but he knew each one he passed was not he. He reached the edge of his row, and was no closer to finding their answer. He glanced around at the others; they, too, were close to edge of their row. No one had lingered on any of the Dreamers. Harry felt frustration building in his stomach. He raked his fingers roughly through his hair, not caring when his curls caught and snagged, pulling strands from his scalp. He turned in a slow circle, looking for something. Anything.

And he stopped.

At the very end of the farthest row, something caught his eye. He took slow, cautious steps forward, his breath caught in his chest.

The Dreamer’s full lips were parted in repose, his chestnut hair curling on its very edges. Harry stopped at the edge of the cot and looked down at the face he knew; he didn’t know; he used to know.

“You.” He breathed. Harry pressed his hand to the man’s cheek. He fought the instinct to pull back from the strange coldness of the man’s skin. He pressed harder until he could feel the barest whisper of a heartbeat, could see the slightest rise of his chest.

There was life.

Harry heard the murmur of voices around him, and knew his boys had followed him and were surrounding the cot but Harry had no attention to give them. He reached out and with his thumb, caressed the tender, blue-veined skin below the man’s closed eye; the gesture felt familiar. He felt something warm and familiar settle in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, pushed by instinct, and pressed his lips to the man’s cold, slack mouth, lingering for a moment. He pulled back, face still close enough to count each eyelash resting on the man’s cheek. The man didn’t stir.  Harry leaned in again, kissing him once, twice and again. The man slept on. Harry mouth was dry; he couldn’t swallow. He felt his chin begin to tremble. His back bowed as his fingers clutched at the man’s shoulders, shaking him with each press of lips.

“Wake up.” He pleaded into the man’s motionless lips, his voice cracking on the words.

The man did nothing.

“Wait.” Zayn hand was firm on Harry’s arm, pulling him back. Harry twisted towards him, angry words on the tip of his tongue; he would fight if it meant staying close to the Dreamer. But Zayn’s face was calm with a soothing determination.

“We need to do this right, Harry.” He took Harry’s hands between his own, and kissed them softly. He slowly pulled them down, and placed Harry’s hands on either side of the Dreamer’s face. His own hands still covering Harry’s, Zayn leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss on the Dreamer’s cheek.

“Come back to us.” He whispered. Zayn straightened and met Harry’s gaze, his eyes unashamedly damp. Harry felt answered tears spring to his own eyes. Zayn walked around the cot until he was standing at the bottom, and rested his hands gently on the man’s thin ankles. He glanced around at the others, and gave Niall a nod of his head. Niall stepped forward with resolve and twice pressed his lips firmly to the man’s forehead.

“Wake up.” He said, his loud voice echoing in the silent room. He sniffed once before stepping to the side, grabbing the man’s slack hand.

They all looked to Louis. Louis bobbed his head sharply and squared his shoulders. He leaned over and pressed a feather soft kiss on each of the Dreamer’s trembling eyelids, his lips barely touching the skin.

“Get up, you lazy wanker.” He said into the Dreamer’s ear, the harsh words belied by the tremor in his voice. He, too, stepped back, standing to the side of the cot across from Niall and taking the Dreamer’s other hand between both of his.

They stood for a moment, staring at the achingly familiar stranger sleeping before them. Zayn was the first to lift his head. He looked at Harry, a painful intensity in his gaze.

“Call him, Harry. Call him for all of us.” Harry smiled at his boys, slow and jagged, as he couldn’t really remember how to make his face move that way. He nodded.

Harry leaned down, once more pressed his tear-stained lips to the Dreamer’s slack mouth.  

“Please.” He whispered, for all his boys to hear, “Come back to us.”  

 

_Harry is almost asleep when his door creaks open. He opens one eye halfway, just enough to watch a silhouette steal through the crack. The figure lingers on the threshold. Harry rolls his arm away from his body, lets it slump bonelessly against his bed with his fingers outstretched. The figure takes the invitation as it is meant, scurrying across the floor and climbing into bed, winding his body tight around Harry. Harry burrows into the warm figure, head against the other man’s chest. But he can feel the lines of tension in the arms around him._

_“What’s wrong, Li?” Harry whispers as Liam makes no move to speak. Harry can feel every breath Liam takes, feels his chest stutter at the question._

_“I’m scared, Harry.” Liam says, the protective darkness allowing words none of them have dared to say. And Harry understands. Fear is something they all live with now._

_“Everything will be ok- it will.” Harry says, forcing surety into the words. “Winter will be over soon, and Zayn will get better, and he will paint the town, house by house, until the whole town is a mess of color.” He strokes his hands gently up and down Liam’s back. He feels the catch in Liam’s breath even before burn of moisture on his shoulder._

_“Liam?” Harry asks, pulling away in shock, “You are crying! What…”_

_“Please.” Liam whispers, burrowing closer to Harry. His voice is thick with tears, fragile in a way Harry has never heard. “Please don’t stop. Keep talking, please.” His fingers clutch at Harry’s sleep shirt, grabbing and releasing, only to grab again. Harry curls around Liam once more, until the fringe of Liam’s hair tickles his lips as he talks._

_“Niall’s knee will get better, and he will be able to go into town again, and play in the pub and everyone in town will sing along with him- us loudest of all.” Harry’s voice is shaking, but he forces the words to continue. If Liam is willing to break for Harry, Harry will somehow be strong for both of them. He will wish hard enough for it all to somehow be true._

_“You and Louis will go Cowell’s store, prank him until he threatens to not let you in anymore, but we will all know he is kidding.” Harry shuts his eyes, an unconscious smile turning the edges of his lips. He can see it now._

_“And us?” Liam whispers, turning his face up towards Harry’s._

_“And we.” Harry pauses, scouring his mind for a way of putting voice to all his hopes, “We will go on adventures, and explore the mountains and the caves, and cuddle by the fire and night. Talk of everything and nothing. And everything,” Harry lets his eyes slid shut, “will be perfect.”_

_“Harry.” Liam whispers, his voice brittle and already cracking._

_“I promise, Liam. We have each other- that’s all we need.” Harry isn’t sure who moves first. They are close, so close, their breath already mingling that it takes but a turn of the head for them to be kissing._

_It’s a hard press of lips; Liam is tonguing at Harry’s lower lip, teasing it open and slipping inside, kissing the breath from Harry’s mouth. Harry’s fingers slip around Liam’s head, pulling him closer until he can feel the burn of Liam’s stubble against his cheeks. It’s messy and slick and perfect._

_Harry catches Liam’s face between his palms, strokes his thumb across the warm, swollen skin beneath Liam’s eyes. He tilts Liam’s chin up with the tips of his fingers, and slows the kiss into a gentle caress of lips. He has wanted this for as long as he has known Liam. God knows, he is going to savor every moment._

_He swallows Liam’s whimpers: soft, hurt sounds he can’t bear to hear. He can feel Liam shaking, slight tremors his own body mimics. He reluctantly releases Liam’s face and skims his hands down Liam’s sides. He catches the soft cotton of Liam’s shirt and pushes it out of the way. He fingers dance across the firm expanse of Liam’s chest; they both shudder. Liam’s mouth stutters against his, and Harry can feel the firm length of Liam’s hardness pressing against his stomach. Harry moans into Liam’s mouth, his fingers clutching at Liam’s sides hard enough to leave a path of bruises._

_Liam pulls away; Harry can feel his chest heaving, can hear the rapid staccato of his breathing. The room is dark, Liam’s form barely outlined by the sliver of moon peeking through the window. Harry feels a quick flash of anger at the night. He knows Liam’s face better than he knows his own but he doesn’t know him like this; can’t imagine his face flushed with a need Harry himself caused. His fingers skate softly over Liam’s face, trying to see what his eyes cannot. Each beloved part of Liam’s face is familiar but somehow new in the cover of darkness. He can feel the spit stained moisture of Liam’s lips, the strange heat of his flushed cheeks. The skin beneath his eyes is still damp with the remnants of tears and Liam’s lashes brush soft kisses on Harry’s fingertips as he delicately wipes the tears away._

_Liam leans in once more, presses a wet, open- mouthed kiss to Harry’s cheek before mouthing his way down. He bites down on the hard line of Harry’s neck, soothing the sharp flash of pain with gentle swipe of his tongue. The clashing sensations claw a cry from Harry’s throat, leaving him breathless even as Liam kisses further down his chest, down until his face is resting on the curve of Harry’s hip. With a slow, almost tentative pull of his fingers, he rucks Harry’s sleep shirt up until it is bunched above his waist. Liam groans, a deep rumbling sound as his hands find Harry’s hips, cradling the bare skin. Harry would echo the sound if he could find the breath to do so._

_Harry tips his head to the ceiling, gulping for air. Liam seems to be everywhere; his hands are skimming Harry’s sides, his hips, his thighs, leaving trails of goose pimples in his wake. Soft, open mouthed kisses are pressed to the crease of Harry’s hip, the soft inner skin of his thigh. Harry can’t see, can’t predict where the next touch will be. It is driving him mad._

_His hips shuffle restlessly against the bed. Liam’s touch is heaven, but he needs more._

_The first touch of Liam’s mouth on his cock is molten. Harry whines, high in his throat. Liam’s tongue is swirling around the head, stroking gently at Harry’s slit. Slowly, slowly Liam slips it into his mouth, sucking first at the ridge before slipping his lips down the shaft with a steady, maddening pressure. Harry’s mouth is open, but he can’t make a sound. He thighs are trembling with the effort of not bucking into Liam’s mouth. All he can hear is the soft, enthusiastic sounds Liam makes as he licks._

_Harry can’t see him through the dark, but gods, can he feel him. Not just the encompassing heat of Liam’s mouth around his length, Harry can feel the breadth of Liam’s shoulders between his thighs, the solid weight of his hands anchoring Harry’s hips to the bed. Harry lets his own hands fall atop Liam’s head, fingers parting and caressing the sweat tinged strands. Harry scratches his nails across Liam’s skull, not daring to push but needing some connection, some proof Liam is there, that this is more than a dream. He needs him closer_

_“Liam, Liam,” He chants, “Up. Please”. He tugs at Liam’s head, biting back an jagged moan as Liam pulls his mouth away from Harry’s cock. The bite of cold is painful after the exquisite warmth of Liam’s mouth, but Harry needs more._

_Liam follows Harry’s hands, scrambling back up Harry’s body. Harry’s eyes have adjusted; he can just make out Liam’s face, his eyes a shock of white in the darkness before Liam’s lips are on him again._

_He kisses are edged with desperation; Harry whimpers into Liam’s mouth, licking at the intoxicating taste of Liam mixed with his own musk. Harry whimpers and pushes Liam away._

_“Off, off.” He mutters, pulling clumsily at Liam’s shirt. His lips are tingling, his hands aching to pull Liam flush against him once more but the allure of Liam’s bare skin against his is too much to deny._

_Liam follows Harry’s lead, yanking the cotton over his head, and tossing it blindly to the floor. Then he is on Harry, the weight of his body crushing Harry into the bed. His skin is smooth and scorching against Harry’s own._

_Liam kisses the sweaty curls on Harry’s forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, the soft pressure of his lips leaving Harry shaking almost more than the pressure in his groin._

_Liam slips his hand between them, and wraps it around both of their cocks. He squeezes and slides, his path make slick by spit and precome. Liam’s grip is tight, almost painful but Harry’s hips buck into the grip._

_Harry tosses his head against the pillows, the rough catch of Liam’s callouses and the silky slip of his cock against Harry’s own driving him slowly insane._

_Liam is panting in Harry’s ear, broken words that Harry can’t understand through the haze. The air is thick with the smell of their sweat and musk and Harry loves it. He digs his fingers into Liam’s back, fighting for an anchor. He thinks distantly of the red marks his nails must be leaving on the firm expanse of Liam’s back; he digs his fingers in harder._

_Liam lifts his other hand and presses it against Harry’s cheek. Harry can feel it shaking._ _Their kisses have become wet and sloppy as their desperation grows, more of a press of open mouths unwilling to part. He can feel his orgasm building; he's breathless and sweat-slick, his arms sticking to Liam’s back. Their lips part as Liam pulls his face away. Harry whines, straining his neck to follow Liam’s retreat. Liam anchors Harry’s head with a gentle grip of his hand._

_“I love you.” Liam stutters, his eyes fierce and desperate in the darkness. Harry pants uselessly against Liam’s face. He opens his mouth but can only pant; he can’t catch his breath to say the words back._

_“I love you.” Liam says again and Harry is coming. He throws his head back, a long deep groan wrenched from his throat. He arches his back, his body a tight, sinuous line as he presses against Liam, chest to chest. The moment stretches out and somehow, the world shrinks and nothing exists except him and Liam. Through the haze, he feels Liam still with a deep groan, feels the warm splash of Liam’s come against his hips and stomach. His own cock gives a pained twitch at the feeling._

_Harry feels like he is floating, the force of his orgasm leaving him exhausted boneless. He feels Liam tense and pull away but before he can do more than whine in protest, Liam is pulling at his arms, pushing his legs and turning him on his side. Harry contentedly lets Liam organize them, and curls willingly into Liam’s arms, head resting on Liam’s chest. Liam’s arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him tight; Harry feels safe. He presses an absent kiss to the center of Liam’s chest, and pulls his face away. He looks up and Liam, and opens his mouth. But Liam presses a finger against his bruised lips._

_“No. Please. Don’t say anything.” He says. Harry frowns at the touch of desperation in his voice. “Not now. I just need you to know I love you.”_

_Harry nods slowly, pushing down the small stab of hurt. He pushes himself up on his elbows until he is above Liam. He takes Liam’s face in his hands, cradling his cheeks. He kisses him again, lingering press of lips with gentle passion. He hopes it can somehow say the words Liam won’t let him voice._

_Harry pulls away reluctantly, exhaustion pulling at him. He curls around Liam, limbs twined together. As he drifts away to the beat of Liam’s heart and the feeling of Liam’s fingers in his hair he promises himself- he will let Liam have tonight but he will wake him up in the morning with a kiss and he will say the words back to him. Tomorrow._

_Harry wakes, as he always does, with the first rays of sun hitting his face. He lies in bed, sheet twisted around his body. He keeps his eyes closed as he stretches his arms, fingers touching both edges of the bed. His brow furrows as he tries to hold on to the last moments of his dream. With each moment of wakefulness, it is slipping away, like water from a cupped hand. A full lipped smile, the rough of stubble, whispers of… love?_

_He blinks his eyes open and glances around his room. He is alone; his dream fades away._

 

How long do I have?

Just until the morning.

 

There is a house on the very edge of the woods. Its Mistress sits on the porch, rocking slowly back and forth. Her eyes are closed, but she is smiling.

 Inside her house, one of her Dreamers opens his eyes.

 

 

 

Finis

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS – tl:dr - Liam traded himself and everyone’s memories of him for Zayn and Niall’s health, and for an early spring. Except that didn’t sit well with the other boys. That come across at all?


End file.
